Chapter 47 - AMY
AMY
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Kane doesn’t say a word as he steers me into the house through the back door, Saba following us. I don’t say anything either. What is there to say? Did I really hope my situation had changed?
Nolene, still in her running outfit but now with a Zorro mask on, is waiting inside my room. I catch sight of the syringe she’s holding and dread knots my insides at the thought of being drugged and helpless again.
After ordering Saba to sit outside, Kane closes the door.
Nolene holds out the syringe. “We better hurry.”
After the briefest hesitation, Kane takes the syringe.
I stand my ground as I watch him approach, my heart beating furiously. Kane’s hesitation before taking the syringe has given me hope. “Please don’t inject me,” I plead. “I promise I won’t make any noise.”
“Shut up,” Nolene snaps.
“All the facilities the kids need are outside,” Kane says to Nolene. “The house is a private residence. There’s no reason for them to be inside.”
“There are at least two teachers in this group,” Nolene points out. “She’ll scream and one of them will hear. It’ll be all over for us.”
Kane is quiet, his gaze on me. Finally, he says to Nolene, “You can leave.”
Her lips part in astonishment. “What?”
“I’m not sedating her. I’ll stay here to ensure she remains quiet.”
“What are you doing? She’s already tried to escape! She can’t be trusted.”
“I’m not drugging her,” he repeats, signaling the end of the discussion.
Throwing a hate-filled glare my way, Nolene storms out, a hard, hurt set to her shoulders.
My sense of relief is almost painful. “Thank you,” I say to Kane.
He brushes off my gratitude, his eyes like fragments of ice.
“The next time this happens we might not get you to your room in time. I can’t risk anyone recognizing you.
” He grasps my upper arm. “Come with me.” He leads me toward the bathroom where I had my shower, closing and locking the door behind him.
I stand in the middle of the bathroom, hugging my arms to my body. “Okay, I’m really scared here.”
He looks startled. His hand lifts, as though to reach for me, but he quickly drops it. “There’s no need to be scared. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m only going to cut and dye your hair.”
“What!” A wave of outrage washes over me.
Never mind I was imagining all manner of awful scenarios involving cages, needles, and ropes.
He’s going to cut my hair? No way. I love my hair.
It holds a particular, glorious vanity for me.
Shaking my head, I back up a step. “No way you’re touching my hair. ”
“Amy, come on, it’s hair,” Kane says, but even his face reflects regret as he contemplates my blonde mane.
“It’s my hair and I like it just the way it is.”
“Your hair will grow back and the color will grow out,” he informs me. “We have no choice but to change your appearance.”
“I’ll wear a wig.”
“I don’t have a wig. And a wig can fall off, which will raise questions.
” He opens the cabinet under the basin, angling his body so his back isn’t to me.
“I know Mel dyes her hair,” he mutters. “She must have something in here.” Searching the shelves, he pulls out a hair coloring kit, a plastic spray bottle, and a comb.
Straightening, he stares at the items he’s lined up on the bath rim. His expression of dismay matches mine.
After a long silence, he says, “I think I’ll get Jill for this.”
“No! I’ll end up with orange hair and a prison haircut.” I find it telling Kane doesn’t argue the point. “Please leave my hair alone. Haven’t you done enough to me?”
Irritation flares on his face. “Get over yourself. It’s hair. I have blue teeth. We’re both looking less than our best.”
He leaves the bathroom and returns with scissors and a bar stool, positioning it in front of the mirror. “Sit.” When I remain standing, he says, “Sit, or remain locked in your room.”
Battling to contain my fury at the sheer injustice of it all, I lower myself onto the stool. A ratty towel is dropped into my lap. “Put this over your shoulders.”
I jerk the towel in place and watch, fuming, as Kane fills up the spray bottle with water. “At least tell me you’ve cut hair before.”
He nods. “When I was eight and got chewing gum stuck in my hair. Does that count?”
Appalled, I stare at his reflection in the mirror.
“Relax, hairdresser humor.”
“It’s not funny.”
After spraying my hair with water, Kane drags a comb through my wet hair, his gentleness and patience as he tackles my knots taking me by surprise.
For the next few minutes, he works in silence, standing so close that my awareness of him is acute.
I hold myself still as the disturbing intimacy of the act begins to register.
“No need to look so nervous,” he reassures me. “I’m not planning on hacking away.” He squirts water on the ends of my hair. “Besides, cutting hair is not exactly rocket science.”
I grit my teeth. “It’s enough of a science if I’m charged hundreds of dollars for a haircut.”
He freezes, looking horrified. “That has to be a joke.”
“It’s not. It’s what you pay for a top-rate hairdresser.”
“No, it’s what you pay.” He shakes his head. “I have better things to spend my money on.”
“Like ski masks and getaway cars.”
We continue sniping at one another as he snips away, with me questioning his every move, punctuated by him berating me for flinching every time a hank of hair falls to the floor.
Finishing at last, Kane puts down the scissors, positioning it well out of my reach.
My long hair now hangs to just above my shoulders.
Gone is my artfully layered cut, choppy is the kindest description for my current style.
Yet even as I mourn the loss of my hair, I can’t help but notice that the new cut only emphasizes the catlike slant of my blue eyes and outlines my heart-shaped face even more.
I meet Kane’s eyes in the mirror and catch him frowning over his handiwork. I wonder if he too is surprised at the result.
When he speaks, however, his voice is brusque. “Let’s do the color.”
“What color is it?”
Kane glances at the box. “Mahogany. It’ll wash out after ten shampoos.”
Mahogany. I bite my lip, choking down my rage.
As I watch him attempt to wrestle the thin gloves onto his large hands, I don’t fight the smile that holds a bit of a gloat. My smile widens as he throws the gloves down in a fit of temper and stalks out of the bathroom, returning with large rubber gloves.
I refuse to help, hoping he’ll give up in sheer frustration, but through bull-headed determination, Kane works the color into my hair, scowling and muttering all the while, using paper towels to wipe away the spills.
For the twenty-minute wait for the color to take, he leaves me alone in the bathroom after tossing a vegan cookbook my way.
“Sadist!” I call after him, but he’s already slammed the door, his patience and temper having clearly reached their limit.
After twenty minutes, I take a shower. I was tempted to take it earlier and ruin the work he did, but Kane read my mind and warned me that if the color is to be redone, Jill—Nolene, I correct silently—will do the honors.
It feels strange running my hands through hair so short. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had long hair. Anger flares again, hot and bright. I inhale deeply through my nose. Nothing I can do about it now except go with acceptance and try not to let frustration eat away at me.
As I dress, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. Shock jolts through me. The spunky style takes some getting used to. It’s difficult to judge the color because my hair is still wet.
There’s an impatient rap at the door, Kane’s voice on the other side. “Finished admiring yourself yet?”
I open the door and step out of the bathroom. “There’s nothing to admire about your hack job.”
He offers up a slow grin as his eyes sweep over me. “I hate to run the risk of puffing you up even more, but I believe I’ve uncovered a talent I didn’t know I had.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You do it all for me,” he murmurs, almost unwillingly. Swallowing, I keep quiet. He clears his throat. “All right, back to the room.”
I walk ahead of him as he escorts me down the hallway. No sashaying or cocky comments this time. We’re hovering close to something, and I don’t want to do anything to plunge us over the edge.
#
“Your father sent through his media statement yesterday,” Kane says to me when we’re back in my room. “He came through on one of our demands so as a show of good faith you can speak to him briefly to let him know you’re all right.”
Excitement courses through me as he holds his phone up and puts it on speaker.
“Daddy, it’s me,” I announce when my father answers, my voice cracking on the me.
He lets out a sharp intake of air. “Amy! Are you all right? How are they treating you?”
“I’m okay, Dad,” I say gently, interrupting the frantic barrage of questions. “Please don’t worry, I’m okay.”
“I miss you, sweetheart. I miss you so much.”
“I miss you too.” I swallow. “I want to go home.”
“I’m doing everything I can. I want you to trust me on this.”
“I do, Dad.” I look up at Kane, adding defiantly, “I do trust you.”
“All right, that’s enough,” Kane announces.
“Wait!” I cry, but Kane presses the disconnect button and slips the phone into his pocket.
I glare at him. “You are such a—”
“Yeah, I know,” he interrupts in a flat voice. “When you get home, you and Daddy can take turns tearing me apart.”
Unspooling inside me is an almost unbearable pain. I curl into a ball on top of the bed, facing the wall.
“Go away,” I say dully. “Just go away.”